The Crowley piece has petered out due to distraction. I’m a little rattled. There’s been a helicopter following me for the last few days. No, it’s not just all in my head; there’s plenty of stuff that is all “in my head” but this helicopter ain’t one of them. I’m under surveillance. It’s not subtle. It doesn’t appear to be a case of someone simply spying on me from a stealthy distance; or someone trailing me in a late-model tan sedan, keeping a few car lengths behind to avoid detection; or someone keeping tabs on me with kick-ass binoculars. This is a big fat helicopter, and it’s been following me.
At first I didn’t give the whole helicopter business much thought. It was pretty high up, and its rotors only made the faintest of buzzing sounds. I barely noticed it on a Monday morning. I guess I did find it a tad queer that the chopper appeared to accompany me to North Bay. After work, I again found it a tad queer that the chopper appeared to accompany me back into Mattawa. That was last Monday. Now the helicopter has become more brazen. It is no longer satisfied with merely following me from a reasonable distance. Now it hovers directly over me where ever I go. It’s pretty low and ass-kicking loud, and in turn causes a formidable downdraft. Yesterday I went out wearing the black straw hat I had purchased in the Ladies Fashions section from a North Bay box store Goliath. I like hats. It’s difficult finding one that doesn't make me look nefarious. This straw hat is fantastic, and I like it, but it becomes unmanageable in the wind. If this hat has any drawback, it is that it resigns itself to the wind. Never resign yourself to anything.
The helicopter blew my hat off, sending it tumbling down the quiet residential street upon which I reside with my wife, two children and two mini-schnauzers. I shook my fists at the helicopter for blowing my hat away. Although it was dangerously low, and I could have probably taken it down by throwing a rake into its tail rotor thingy, I still could not see who was flying the damn thing. The helicopter has no distinguishable markings on it, like HYDRO, or some corporate identifying marker. No numbers. It’s red. That’s it. A red helicopter following me with wonky eagle eyes for the last week. There may be a bumper sticker on it, I can’t be sure, and I could not even to begin to guess what a bumper sticker on a helicopter would say, but it would have to be clever.
Last night the helicopter landed in my back yard; the unfamiliar pilot killing the engine. The rotors slowly came to a full stop, drooping gradually, slicing up the flowers my wife had recently planted. This morning, from behind the pull-down blind in my son’s bedroom I sneak a glance.
There was once a time where I could relax on the back deck by the pool. I could strum my guitar. I could read, or play with Brenda, my stuffed beaver. No longer. If I do go out, the helicopter immediately fires up and hovers over me like a colossal dragonfly until I go retreat into the house.
Interestingly, the helicopter does not appear to show any interest in any other members of my family. They can come and go as they please. My son, Shannon, is convinced that I have somehow managed to piss off someone pretty important. He told me it could be Louis Riel, Bob Saget, or possibly someone from CSIS. Yet, I don’t think CSIS has the budget for 24-hour chopper surveillance on an everyday schmoe who can jack up his back simply by putting his socks on. Plus, what could I have possible done to piss someone off to such a great extent? All my cantankerous letters to the Nugget never make it into print so I’m safe on that front.
It’s difficult for a seasoned neurotic to think back and second guess things, as for the seasoned neurotic, things can quickly become quite exaggerated and irrational. The neurosis begins to metastasize - to feed upon itself. I recall recently making a one-off joke that was, under the clarity of hindsight, in very poor taste. I dropped the quip while in the mixed company of utter strangers. It was not a schmaltzy cocktail type affair, as I was exiled from North Bay’s swinging cocktail circuit a few years back. This interaction, I think, was while waiting in line for the bizarre opportunity to shoot a regulation 29 ½” sized basketball into a hoop large enough to drive a Prius through. I stood in line with my new friend from the great American state of Georgia, waiting for my shot - for my fifteen seconds of blinding fame. The premise of the marketing shtick was that the first two hundred people in line would be able to participate in the fun. Just shoot the ball in the hoop. If you make the shot you would be given ten Canadian dollars, ostensibly to purchase Lake Head beer - the fine folks sponsoring this pseudo event. It is quite possible that someone took offense to an observation about our collective fear of terrorism. I don’t know how it happened, or why I felt it was a good time to make any kind of social observation about terrorism and our collective fear of fear. Admittedly, it wasn’t a particularly funny quip, but I think that it was, at the very least, amusing. For god’s sake, give me that much.
If this helicopter, now parked in my backyard for the night, is the result of my off-the-cuff comment about terrorism while waiting in line to shoot a regulation 29 ½” sized basketball through a comically oversized basketball hoop, then I think we’re all screwed. Be afraid.
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